


How Easy You Are To Need

by sirfoxheart



Series: Sex Magic [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, But also enthusiastic consent, M/M, Sex Pollen, Smut, the usual amount of sex pollen-esque dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfoxheart/pseuds/sirfoxheart
Summary: Everyone in the Cottage is hit with sex pollen. Quentin is perfectly capable of resisting everyone's advances... until he sees Eliot.Set part way through Quentin's first year in the same verse as the Sex Magic series, pre-relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rizcriz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/gifts).



> This fic is entirely Riz's fault, who prompted me with sex pollen and... some circumstances revolving around it that are spoilery. This is for you, babe.
> 
> Huge thanks to Riz and Gigi for reading through this for me, and to the folks at RAO for the constant encouragement.
> 
> This wasn't originally part of the Sex Magic universe, but I realised I could make it a prequel to what I've already published, so now it is because I said so.

The kitchen was dark, the only light coming from the open doorway to the rest of the cottage. The music that someone had put on earlier still played through the speakers, not quite the blaring volume that it had been earlier, but loud enough to be heard from across the house.

Quentin curled in tighter on himself, pressing his face into his knees and wrapping his arms over his head, and wished that it could block out _everything else_ that he could hear.

If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that he’d lost track of who’s moans belonged to whom. Almost. Before he’d fled the common room, Alice and Kady had been making out on the couch right beside him, grinding against each other, Alice’s hands gripping tightly at the back of the couch as she moved over Kady. Penny had Julia pressed up against the wall, one leg hitched over his waist and her hips rolling against his. Several others had been in various states of undress around the room, their hands and mouths and bodies all over each other, and Quentin had quickly given up trying to pry people off of each other.

Mostly because every person he touched immediately tried to pull him in closer, and his resolve grew weaker every time.

Pulling away from them had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, but somehow he’d managed it. He wasn’t sure how long he could _keep_ managing it, though, so he’d made a run for his bedroom. Except three people were having their own party halfway up the stairs, and he - god, it would have been so easy to fall down beside them and bury his face against that bare shoulder, reach around to grab that bare breast…

So. The kitchen.

Hearing a particularly loud cry, Quentin shifted his legs, wishing he could reach down and adjust himself but knowing that if he put his hand anywhere near his cock then he wouldn’t be able to stop. He was hard, achingly so, and every sound he heard coming from the other room made it harder to pretend he could ignore it. Most of the people who had been hit had found their way to bedrooms, including Eliot and Margo he presumed, but there were enough people within earshot that it was impossible to block out, and - _fuck_ \- he squeezed his eyes shut as Alice’s moans hit a higher pitch.

And the worst thing was that it was his fault.

Well, no. Not _entirely_. He hadn’t known what the yellow powder was in the jar that Todd had asked him to hold for him while he ran upstairs to grab a coat before heading out for the night.

And it wasn’t _really_ his fault that he’d tripped on the edge of the rug when he’d spotted Todd and stepped forward to pass him the jar. Or that it had slipped from his fingers, flying halfway across the room before shattering on the ground. _Or_ that what he now knew to be pollen had dispersed so quickly, flowing into the lungs of everyone in the room.

Quentin had been far enough away that he’d gotten less of a hit of it than everyone else, but he’d still felt its effects immediately. His skin felt hot, too hot, and tingly, his mouth going dry, his whole body sinking into an ache that he knew, straight away, how to ease, his breath catching in his throat and his cock starting to harden before he could really consider why.

Todd had made a run for it, a muttered “sorry” and “I didn’t mean” and “sex pollen” and “just a few hours” barely heard before he disappeared in the direction of the back door. Quentin had watched him go, panic starting to build inside of him, before he was distracted by warm hands on his shoulders that he’d barely had the presence of mind to twist away from.

He didn’t know how long he’d been hiding in the kitchen for, but he was fairly confident that the people in the stairwell had moved on, and he knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He wanted… god, he wanted to grab onto the closest person he found and kiss them until he couldn’t breathe, touch them until they fell apart against him, rut into them until he found some kind of relief. Failing that... if he could get up to his room, he could wrap his hand around his cock and maybe he’d be okay.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Quentin leveraged himself up to his feet with his hand on the wall for support. Keeping his eyes low to avoid seeing anything he didn’t want to - _didn’t_ want to - he stepped cautiously out of the kitchen. He glanced carefully up the stairs to make sure the way was clear, so he didn’t realise right away who had barrelled into him from the opposite direction. He heard a deep grunt and a higher-pitched sigh before a strong hand gripped his arm, steadying him, and he barely had time to register that it was Penny’s eyes, darker than usual, that stared down at him before his grip shifted to the back of his neck and Quentin was pulled firmly against him.

He moaned when Penny’s lips met his roughly, arching his body against his automatically. His eyes sliding closed, he fisted his hands in his shirt to pull him closer, lifting up on his toes to deepen the kiss, and _oh_ , the feeling of warm hands on him, tugging him closer, pressing firmly against him, a thigh slipping between his legs and rocking against him… A shudder ran through Quentin, encouraged by the low groan that Penny made… Penny…

Who _definitely_ would not be kissing him if he was in his right mind.

Forcing his hands to flatten on Penny’s chest, Quentin pushed him away, gasping for breath as he stared up at him, wide eyed. “Oh my god.” Penny looked down at him, his mouth parted, and Quentin staggered backward, working against every instinct that told him to get _closer._ His breath caught in his chest when he saw, for the first time, that Penny’s other arm was around someone else - Julia was pressed into his side, cheeks flushed as she watched him, and Quentin felt a flush of embarrassment and awkwardness at the look in her eyes. The want in her eyes.

Scared of what his looked like, he squeezed them shut, putting his hands up between them. He wanted… _fuck_ , he wanted to step forward and press her into the bannister right behind her, hitch her legs around his waist and bury his teeth into the side of her neck… he’d spent so much time staring at her over the years that his imagination didn’t need to give him anything, it was all right there.

He didn’t _want_ Julia anymore. He didn’t want Penny. Forcing his eyes open, he made himself look at her, and saw a flash of that same awkwardness in the depths of her lust. “Are you… okay?” he asked, his voice strained as he looked quickly in Penny’s direction. He didn’t know what he’d do if she said no. He didn’t know what he’d do if he touched either of them again.

“Yeah.” He groaned when he saw her glance down at his obvious erection. “If you need -”

“No,” he said quickly, taking another step backward until he felt the wall hard against his back. He couldn’t… he just couldn’t. Not with Penny. Especially not with her. “Go. Please.”

He watched the long line of her throat as she swallowed. Nodding, she moved toward the stairs, and Quentin felt a moment of panic when she redirected to step toward him before Penny grabbed her arm, pulling her back against him. Groaning in frustration, she sent him a quick look of apology before taking Penny’s hand and pulling him quickly up the stairs.

Shaking, Quentin sank against the wall, covering his face with his hands and trying to block out the sounds Alice and Kady were making on the couch. Kady was the louder one now, her deeper voice crying out with every breath, and Quentin fought hard not to look over at them, not to wonder what they were doing, not to… think about how easy it would be to go over and join them. How easy it would be to follow Julia and Penny up the stairs. He didn’t even know whose room they were heading to, but he could find them easily enough.

Except he was _not_ going to be fucking Julia tonight.

He wasn’t going to be fucking _anyone._

To make sure he didn’t, he counted out a full minute, and then another, before uncovering his eyes and looking up the stairs. Finding it empty, he breathed a sigh of relief and started his way up, intent on locking himself in his room until his need to crawl into every person he saw faded. A few hours, Todd had said. How long had it been? Half an hour? Longer? He couldn’t take any more of this. The friction of his jeans with every step was almost painful, so he picked up his pace, desperate to be alone.

He’d almost reached the top of the stairs when he heard the front door to the cottage open, and he tried not to slow down, tried to keep his eyes forward, but he couldn’t help but glance back. His hand gripping tightly onto the bannister, he looked down and saw Eliot appear through the door, closing it behind him. His eyes landed on Quentin immediately, almost like he’d been expecting to find him there, or like his gaze was drawn to him ( _no that’s ridiculous what is wrong with you),_ but he felt a tiny part of him relax at the smile that lit up Eliot’s face when he saw him.

“Quentin!” Eliot took a few steps forward, pausing for a moment with one foot on the bottom step before he started up them, his eyes bright as they stayed on him. “You have _no idea_ how happy I am to see you right now.”

His relief at seeing Eliot quickly turned into panic when he really _saw Eliot_ … his tie pulled askew, his curls awry, his eyeliner smudged, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. Every prior thought left his mind, replaced with a bone deep need to be underneath his skin.

It wasn’t as if he’d spent hours, accumulatively, thinking about what it would feel like to have Eliot’s chest under his hands, or his shoulders, or his stomach, or his… This was _Eliot_ , who breathed confidence and sexuality like no one else he’d ever met. Who was everything he hadn’t even imagined he could be. And somehow now one of his best friends. Eliot, who’s full attention was focused on him, not reacting even slightly to what was happening in the common room.

Quentin felt frozen as Eliot made his way up the stairs, completely caught in the delight in Eliot’s eyes, the tightness in his chest growing stronger and stronger with every step he took. “Margo found someone to screw so I left her to it, but that means I need you to entertain me now.” Eliot pouted at him, pressing his lower lip out slightly, and Quentin… he tried to not look at Eliot’s mouth, he tried, but the alternative was looking at his eyes, his blown pupils, and that hardly felt better. Not when they were focused so completely on him. Particularly when… god, had he been with Margo this whole time? Had he _been with_ Margo this whole time? He felt himself flush hot at the thought, picturing the two of them together, imagining himself with the two of them, imagining…

He couldn’t just _imagine_ it any longer.

Eliot reached the top of the stairs, grinning widely at him again, his mouth parted as though to say something brilliant and funny and clever, and Quentin's hands moved before he could stop them, grabbing two fistfuls of Eliot's vest and pulling him down against him. Whatever Eliot had been about to say turned into a surprised gasp that Quentin swallowed eagerly, pressing his lips against his open mouth as hard as he could. He was - fuck, he was so _warm,_ and he pulled him close, close, closer, the heat of Eliot’s body against his making his mind go blank. He pressed into him further, chasing _more_ , and it wasn’t until he met resistance that he realised he’d backed Eliot up against the wall. He pressed into him instinctively, pulling him down and into him by his grip on his vest, moaning at the feeling of Eliot’s mouth moving against his because _thank god_ _he was kissing him back._

It wasn’t until Eliot’s head tilted to break the kiss, his chest heaving, that Quentin came back to himself, and realised, _really realised_ that he was - fuck, he was crowding Eliot - _Eliot_ \- against the wall, he’d - he’d _pounced on him_ like he had not an ounce of self control and sure, he didn’t, but… this was _Eliot,_ and he couldn’t… He stepped back, a confusing blend of horror that he’d jumped someone like that and incredulity that he was pulling away from him twisting in his stomach.

His hands still fisted in Eliot’s shirt, Quentin stared up at him. He untwisted his hands, but somehow found himself gripping his shoulders. He dropped his eyes to his hands, staring at them as he tried to will them to unclench, but instead they only tightened, and his mouth went dry at the feel of Eliot’s shoulders underneath them.

Raising his eyes to Eliot’s once more, his stomach dropped at the stunned expression on Eliot’s face. He - Eliot wouldn’t want this, he wouldn’t want him, didn’t want him. He had to - god, he was so close to his room, just down the corridor and around the corner, and then he could get off by himself as much as he needed to, he just had to break away from Eliot first… Eliot, who was almost always the first person who came to mind when he was alone in bed late at night with himself in hand. His eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted and well kissed, and Quentin didn’t realise that he was leaning in again until he was already halfway there. “Shit,” he mumbled, pulling back once more, dropping his eyes to his hands, staring at his knuckles. He just… he just couldn’t let go of Eliot’s shoulders, couldn’t force his fingers to loosen. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - I just…”

“Q,” Eliot said, and he glanced up in time to see the heat in his eyes before a hand closed around the back of his neck. Quentin’s eyes slid closed as Eliot kissed him, shivering at the sensation and the suddenness of his mouth moving firmly against his. Eliot’s hand slid higher and into his hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and Quentin felt all his breath leave him at the same time his thoughts did - everything outside of Eliot, and the press of his mouth-body-hands against him was irrelevant, unimportant, nonexistent.

Quentin finally got his hands to move, slipping up around Eliot's neck, and the texture of his hair under his fingers was a stark contrast to his hard body pressed against him. Eliot tasted like scotch and cigarettes, and Quentin moaned again at the sweet and smoke on his tongue. An arm slipped around his waist, fingers digging into his lower back. Slipping one of his legs between Eliot's, he rolled up against him to kiss him deeper, grinding on his thigh as he did so. "Please," he whispered into Eliot's open mouth, embarrassment and desperation fighting for control of his words, of his body, and for once the latter won out. "El, please."

“Fuck, Q.” Shifting his hand to cup the side of Quentin’s neck, Eliot’s thumb pressed along the line of his jaw, his lips moving against Quentin’s when he spoke. That light brush of his mouth against his wasn’t enough, and Eliot’s next words were cut off when he surged upward again to kiss him hungrily. Eliot’s hand pressed tighter into his back, holding Quentin against him, but after a moment he broke off again with a ragged laugh. “I didn’t think you’d want -”

“You’re all I want,” Quentin said in a rush, dropping his head to Eliot’s shoulder when he heard the earnestness in his voice. He… he wanted him, more than he’d ever wanted anything and sure, he knew that the fierceness of what he felt was heightened by the pollen. But it wasn’t _just_ that. He’d wanted Eliot from the second he’d seen him stretched out on top of the Brakebills sign a few months ago. It had quickly become obvious that he didn’t stand anything close to a chance with him, but that didn’t stop him from wanting it.

If anything could come from this, at least he’d finally be honest about what he wanted.

And Eliot wasn’t pulling away. Quentin turned his face further into his neck, closing his mouth over his skin, and the vibration of his moan against his lips only made him kiss him harder, desperate to hear it again. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice strained. “Bed -”

 _Oh my god_.

Quentin whimpered, the thought of getting Eliot alone, of stripping his clothes off and pressing him into the mattress, of crawling underneath his skin, making his knees weak. Both of Eliot's hands shifted to his waist and then he was being pushed backwards down the hallway.

The door to Eliot’s room had barely closed before he was pushed back against it, his breath leaving him as his shoulders connected hard with the wood. The jolt cleared his mind, and he stared up open mouthed at Eliot as he crowded him, struck with how unlikely this, how far fetched, but it was happening anyway, and he should stop it, right? But then his mouth claimed his again, his body flush against his, and the feeling of Eliot grinding against him through his jeans wiped any sense of clarity.

Arching his body up against him, Quentin’s hands moved of their own accord, forcing themselves between them to tug on the buttons of Eliot’s vest until they started to pull free. He pushed it off over his shoulders, and the moment his arms were free Eliot gripped at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up over his head. Quentin’s fingers faltered on his shirt buttons when his mouth closed over his bare shoulder, both hands slipping warm up his sides and over his back, trembling at the light scratch of fingernails over his skin.

It wasn’t until Eliot’s shirt gave under his hands that he realised that he was tugging harder and harder on the material, and his regret for the lost buttons dissolved quickly with the feel of Eliot’s bare chest on his. Lifting up on his tiptoes, he surged forward, kissing Eliot again as he pressed him back against the door, holding him there with his body against his, and something coiled tighter inside him when he felt Eliot hard against his hip, swallowed his sigh when he rocked into him.

One of Eliot’s hands curled around the back of his neck, and he let out a wordless protest when Eliot broke the kiss before it turned into a choked off moan as his lips parted over his throat. It felt too good - how could something so simple send such a wave of pleasure through him? Eliot’s tongue stroked over his Adam’s apple and up along his jaw, and Quentin tightened his arms around him in response, his fingers clutching at the back of Eliot’s shirt. Was it the effects of the pollen, or was it just _Eliot?_ Was it Eliot, or was it the build up of months of wanting finally realised?

He didn’t care - he just wanted _more._

“You taste so good,” Eliot groaned into his neck. “I want…” Quentin’s breath left him in a rush when his hands dropped to his belt, his knuckles brushing against his stomach as he tugged it free.

Eliot sank down to his knees, nipping lightly at the skin above his hip before smoothing his tongue across it, and Quentin’s hips jerked forward into his touch just as he dragged his zipper down. Eliot glanced up at him, and he felt caught in his gaze, holding his breath as he slowly hooked the fingers of one hand into the band of his underwear. His other hand slipped inside, and Quentin’s heart stopped as it wrapped loosely around his cock, the gentle touch making his whole body shudder. Gripping tightly at Eliot’s shoulders, he let out his breath in a rush as Eliot’s eyebrows lifted, his hand around him tightening. “Eliot,” he said, sounding _so god damned desperate_ , but he didn’t care, couldn’t care, because Eliot finally dropped his gaze to look at him as he pulled his jeans and underwear down past his hips.

 _“Oh,”_ Eliot murmured, his voice deep and quiet as he looked at Quentin’s cock, right in front of his eyes. Moving his other hand to grip tightly at his hip, Eliot shifted slightly on his knees before adjusting his hold on him. He stroked him, once, twice, his hand on Quentin’s side holding him back against the door, and the desire on his face when he jumped under his touch was - it was too much, this couldn’t be real, could it?

Glancing up at him, he blinked slowly as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Quentin’s moan turned into a shout when he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock.

Eliot’s mouth sank over him slowly, his lips pressing just below the head before taking him in deeper, and the warm pressure all around him where he’d been aching for attention had his fingers digging into Eliot’s shoulders. He tried to keep still, he _tried_ , but he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting forward. Eliot made a sound in the back of his throat that he felt vibrating all the way through him but he didn’t pull back, he took him _deeper_ , until he hit the back of his throat.

His mouth held still over him for a few seconds, his tongue rolling against the underside of his shaft, and Quentin was gasping for breath by the time he leaned back. He hesitated, looking up at him with the head of his cock dragging against his lower lip before kissing it gently and then pulling away. “Let me look after you,” he said, his eyes burning up at him, and Quentin could only nod, his breath hitching when Eliot took him in his mouth again.

He let himself get lost in it, in the clever way Eliot’s mouth moved over him, his hands and lips and tongue. This was… he’d thought about this so many times, and none of his fantasies came even close to the reality of Eliot sucking him off like it was all he wanted. His hands dove into Eliot’s hair, anchoring himself, and he tried not to push him down, _tried_ not to thrust too far forward into his mouth, but the more worked up he got the more he had to _move_.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he threw his head back against the door, scrambling for his self control and tightening his hands in Eliot’s hair instead, jerking forward and sinking further into his mouth. Eliot’s hand pressed firmly at his hip for a moment before he let it fall, tilting his head to a better angle and - _oh god_ \- letting him fuck into his mouth, just the right pressure around him and he wanted… he wanted to do this forever, but he also -

“I want to fuck you.” The words fell from his lips before he could consider them, could think about whether Eliot would want to do that, would want him to do that, would let him… Eliot moaned around him, sending shivers racing through him as his fingers tightened around the base of his cock where he held it steady. He wanted to feel his whole body against his, to bury himself deep inside him, to make him cry out with pleasure. “Please, I need to - _Eliot._ ”

Eliot pulled back slowly, increasing his suction as he went until Quentin’s hips stuttered forward, chasing the pressure but then his mouth was gone. He paused to kiss his stomach, his chest before he straightened fully and kissed him, his tongue swirling around Quentin’s and he could taste himself, slightly salty and surprisingly erotic. “You want to fuck me?” Eliot murmured against his lips, like he couldn’t believe it, like _he_ was the one who was getting everything he wanted in this moment.

Already, he was rocking forward against Eliot, unconsciously seeking any kind of friction. Eliot’s shirt was still hanging open on his shoulders, and he pushed it off before dropping his hands to his belt, still somehow surprised when he made no move to stop him. “It’s ridiculous,” he said, pausing to kiss him again, hard, as he started working on his pants. “How much I need you right now.”

“Fuck, Q,” he groaned, his hand squeezing the back of his neck. “Me, too.” Tilting his head, he kissed him, his breath hitching when Quentin’s hand closed around him. Quentin moaned just as the feeling of him, hot and heavy and large in his hand as he pulled him out of his underwear, and he would have dropped to the floor right then and there to take him into his mouth if Eliot hadn’t grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away. “Come on,” he said, stepping back and pulling him toward the bed.

Knowing that he wouldn’t make it across the room with his pants around his knees, Quentin let his hand drop from Eliot’s, staying where he was to kick off his shoes and shuck his jeans and underwear. Following Eliot toward the bed, he watched him as he stepped out of his pants, letting them fall uncharacteristically into a heap on the floor, stared hungrily at the long lines of his body, his straight shoulders, his pale skin, the smattering of dark hair on his chest. The long, perfect curve of his cock, jutting up proudly between his legs. It wasn’t until he tore his eyes away, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat, that he remembered that he was just as naked, and Eliot’s eyes were raking over him just as thoroughly.

His self-consciousness didn’t hold a candle to his desire, though, so he barely paused before crossing the room in three quick strides, reaching up to cup Eliot’s face with both hands and pull it down toward him, kissing him hungrily as he pulled him down onto the bed. Eliot landed on top of him and Quentin immediately tried to roll them over. Eliot stopped him with his hand firm on the mattress beside him, but his frustration was lost in the sensation of Eliot’s body flush against his, hard and firm and pressing into him as he reached over him for his bedside table.

Gripping tightly at Eliot’s sides, he tried and failed not to rock up against him, groaning at the rub of his erection against his, grinning as Eliot laughed, his head dropping onto the pillow as he grinded back down on him. He had to… to keep moving, to keep feeling that friction, to get some kind of _relief._ “Wait, wait,” Eliot said, leaning back to kiss his shoulder quickly before stretching over again, inadvertently - or not - pressing down hard on him again as he did so and causing Quentin’s breath to leave him. “Here,” he said, settling properly against him again and pressing something into his hand, a bottle. Lube, right - because he was about to fuck him. _Eliot._

Taking the bottle, he grabbed Eliot’s shoulder with his other hand, his fingers flexing against his skin, squeezing it, still unable to believe that this was a thing that was actually happening. He looked up into Eliot’s eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance that this was okay, and the want he saw there before he ducked down, kissing him hungrily, his hands grasping at his waist, pulling him closer and - _god yes,_ this was more than okay, this was everything.

Feeling completely _consumed_ by him already, Quentin pushed back on Eliot’s shoulder, following him quickly as he rolled him over so that their bodies didn’t lose contact more than they had to. He rocked down against him, feeling Eliot’s warm, naked body flush with every inch of him, aligning his hips so that he rubbed right down on him and - Eliot’s head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed, his hands on his hips encouraging him to move against him. And he wanted - god, he wanted to keep rutting against him until Eliot came, he wanted to slip down his body and swallow him down deep, wanted to taste him, to feel him tremble.

Despite how much he wanted to take it slow and enjoy every second of Eliot Waugh under his hands, there was no more taking his time with this. Eliot’s tight grip on him was desperate, and he wondered how far gone he was. The effect of the pollen was strong, but it didn't stop him from saying no if this was something he didn't actually want, right?

The wave of guilt gave him strength enough to pull away, but he couldn't stop the way his hips moved against Eliot's where the weight of his lower body rested. He fisted his hands on the blanket on either side of Eliot's shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn't lose control completely at how Eliot looked arching up underneath him. "I can stop," he forced out, hoping it was true. He was sure he could manage it, with two or three locked doors between them. The ache he felt before he'd laid eyes on Eliot had been _nothing_ to how he felt now. "If you don't want this, I can -"

"Don't you _dare_.” Quentin felt hands on either side of his face, a gentle touch that contradicted how on edge he felt, how he imagined Eliot must feel as well. It was just a moment, and then one of those hands wrapped around his wrist, dragging it down his body, and Quentin’s eyes flew open to see Eliot’s on him, as serious as he’d ever seen him. “If you’re not inside me in the next thirty seconds I think I’m going to die. _Die,_ Q. _Oh -”_

He couldn’t _not_ take Eliot’s cock in his hand, not when it was right there, not when Eliot was pushing his hand right down beside it. Eliot’s hips lifted off the bed into the space vacated by Quentin when he’d leaned back, thrusting up into his hand, and _Quentin_ was the one who whimpered. He was hot under his touch, hot and smooth and thick in his hand, and he stroked him quickly, too wound up to tease no matter how much that thought just turned him on more. Still - “ _Fuck_ , Quentin.”

“Okay,” he breathed, leaning back on his knees as he scrambled for the bottle. Eliot widened the spread of his legs as Quentin searched with slick fingers, watching carefully for his reaction as he circled his opening with his middle finger. He pressed in with the tip of his finger, slipping past the ring of muscle without difficulty, holding his breath as Eliot’s hitched. He stroked inside him, watching how every movement had his stomach tensing or his chest heaving or his shoulders pressing back into the bed. It wasn't long before Eliot's body relaxed enough for him to work in a second one, stretching him open as carefully as he could, every squirm and gasp Eliot gave only making it harder not to just press into him. He withdrew his hand for a few seconds to squirt another helping of lube into his palm, jerking forward under the attention of his own hand as he slicked himself up, his other returning to Eliot.

“I - _ah, yes_ ,” Eliot gasped, his attempted smirk dissolving as Quentin curled his fingers, stroking them _one-two_ against his prostate, his gaze heavy on his parted lips, the furrow of his brow, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. “I thought you were going to _fuck me, Coldwater._ ”

Heat surrounded him, wrapped around him, filled him up, and he cried out, momentarily stunned by the overwhelming wave of desire that rolled through him. He felt Eliot’s throat moving under his mouth, his chest stuttering against his, tightened the grip of his hands and felt muscle underneath them. Shifted, and let out a guttural moan as he realised he’d thrust straight forward into Eliot, out of his mind.

His hands were digging into the backs of Eliot’s knees, he realised, folding him back until he’s almost bent double. He tried to loosen his grip, tried to ease up but he was already right there, the tight, hot grip of Eliot around his frenetic cock too much for him to handle after being on edge for so long. Both of Eliot’s hands gripped his upper arms tightly, his nails biting into the skin, his hips rocking up against his, seeking friction. Quentin felt every tiny movement as though it were multiplied by a hundred, threatening to shove him off of the precipice. “Quentin,” Eliot moaned, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trembling from the effort of holding himself still, just the sound of his name on his lips almost enough to tip him over.

“Don’t -” move, he tried to say, but he choked on his words when Eliot’s hand slipped from his arm to fist into his hair, and he couldn’t hold on any longer, snapping his hips hard against Eliot’s once, twice, three times before his muscles seized, pressing his face harder against Eliot’s neck at the hard hit of pleasure that rolled through him again and again.

The flex of Eliot’s hand in his hair was what brought him back to himself. His hips were still pressed flush with Eliot’s, his cock buried deep, his fingers digging into the backs of Eliot’s legs. He was still hard, and shaking - the full-bodied relief from finally coming mixed with the tight clench of Eliot around him to morph the longing he felt in his bones into something different but no less potent.

“Oh my god.”

Eliot’s voice, thick and deep, still trembled, as his other hand clawed up to squeeze his shoulder. He squirmed underneath Quentin, who closed his mouth over Eliot’s shoulder to muffle his moan when just that small movement on his over-sensitive body sent shocks running through him. “Wait, wait,” he gasped, dropping his grip on Eliot’s legs to grab his waist, trying to hold him still. Every little thing felt like it was going to overwhelm him, to set him off again, to absolutely ruin him. “Wait, El.”

“ _Oh my fucking god.”_

“Shut up and let me - _oh_.”

Despite his hold on him, Eliot managed to roll his hips up underneath him, and Quentin sucked in his breath at the friction it created. He tightened his grip on Eliot’s waist, sinking back all the way into him because then at least he could hold him in place… except that pressure all around him, the whine that came from the back of Eliot’s throat, was just as likely to drive him crazy. “Move,” he begged, pressing his cheek against the side of Quentin’s head, and he shuddered.

He still felt like each of his nerves had been stretched out and were being plucked like a harp string with every movement. “Give me a second,” he said through gritted teeth, even as his hips tilted forward.

“Quentin, _move._ ”

Putting an elbow under himself on the bed next to Eliot’s side, he grabbed his hip with the other and _moved_ , pulling back just to thrust forward again, drawing a deep moan from his own chest and Eliot’s. Fingers gripped tightly at the back of his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut as Eliot’s mouth pressed hard against his, his legs lifting higher around him and Quentin thrust again, feeling his answering moan through every inch of him.

He had to keep hearing that noise, felt more than a little crazy with the need for it. Eliot’s kiss turned rough, messy, and Quentin gave him everything he could. The drag of Eliot all around him erased any pretence of slow or careful. There was only the hot, tight warmth of him, the breathless sounds he made every time he thrust, the hard press of Eliot’s cock against his stomach, the clutch of hands in his hair, at his shoulder, on his back.

Desperate for _more_ , he picked up his pace, he pressed his knees harder into the mattress but still couldn’t get the momentum he wanted, that he needed. The feel of Eliot’s body against his, his mouth clinging to his was _so much_ , but he couldn’t resist the urge to move harder, faster, chasing the pleasure sparking through him every time he sank in deep. Laying his hand on the side of Eliot’s neck, he kissed him firmly once more before leaning back. Eliot’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, trying to keep him close and he thrilled at the way he arched up, his brow furrowed as he chased his lips. “Q…”

“I need to -” Sitting back on his knees, he unhooked Eliot’s legs from over his hips and pressed them back again. His eyes darted hungrily over the long stretch of Eliot’s thighs under his hands, his narrow waist, the perfect line of his cock, that _he’d barely even touched_ and yet was still smearing precum over his stomach.

Eliot lifted his hips, haphazardly shoving a pillow underneath them and then angling them up like he… like he was fucking _begging for it._ “Quentin - please -” Eliot groaned, and his wide eyes stuttered closed when Quentin pushed back inside him.

“Oh fuck,” Quentin gasped, overwhelmed by the feel of Eliot clenching around him combined with the way he looked, spread out for him, letting him take everything he needed. He thrust hard, unable to hold back the force of his need but trying, at least, to keep his strokes long, to angle them just the right way, to give Eliot something more than the frenzied feeling taking over him. He deserved to be… fucking _worshiped_ , and he… Quentin’s eyes dropped lower and he let out a low moan when he caught sight of his cock disappearing into Eliot again and again, slick with lube and the sticky evidence of his first orgasm.

He _wanted_ to draw this out, to never let this moment end, to give Eliot _everything_ , but he couldn’t keep it up, reverting back to quick, desperate thrusts, the hot wet slide the only thing that made the ever-coiling tension inside him bearable even as it wound tighter and tighter. The increasing shame he felt at his lack of control stalled when he realised Eliot’s hips were lifting to meet his with just as much urgency, and if that’s what he wanted, if he was fighting the same all consuming hunger, well, he could give that to him.

Dropping one of his legs, he hooked the other one up over his shoulder and leaned into the heavy weight of his thigh, wrapping his arm around it to keep it in place. Eliot’s other leg bent beside him, his knee pressing firmly against his side as he thrust into him, sinking into him deeper than before. He saw the moment he found the right spot, when Eliot’s shoulders pressed back into the bed, his mouth falling open, his eyes squeezing shut. “Oh - shit, Q, there -”

“Yeah?” Quentin repeated the movement, watched Eliot’s hands fist in the blanket underneath him. He thrust again - harder - and again - faster - and groaned at the way Eliot’s whole body shuddered. “El -?”

“Oh my _god_ , _don’t stop_ ,” Eliot moaned raggedly, like Quentin could even _consider_ it. He wanted to never stop hearing Eliot like this, hearing - “ _Quentin -”_  him _moan his name_ , like… well, like he was feeling anything close to what Quentin was feeling, right now. A groan sounded through his gritted teeth as a heavy weight of emotion settled over him, not entirely caused by the sex pollen that had caused this whole thing, and it was only compounded by the way Eliot threw his head back, pressing into the pillow.

Feeling a rush of hunger for _more_ , to watch him _completely fall apart_ , Quentin tightened his left hand around Eliot’s thigh and reached down with his right, smoothing it up over Eliot’s balls before sliding it higher to curl around his cock. The sound Eliot made was a cross between a whine and a shout, and Quentin tightened his grip, jerking him as Eliot’s hips moved down onto his cock and then up into his fist. He felt hot all over, that coil inside him so close to snapping, and he wasn’t going to come again before Eliot, he _wasn’t_ , except he could feel it _right there_ , and he _couldn’t stop,_ and - “ _Fuck_ , El, I -” but Eliot was crying out, shuddering underneath him as he spilled out over Quentin’s hand, and Quentin made two more erratic thrusts before his own orgasm hit him hard, his body jerking as he emptied himself inside Eliot.

It wasn’t until he felt a mouth pressed to his forehead, a hand in his hair, that he realised he’d lost time, likely just a few seconds. He was slumped over Eliot, his legs wrapped loosely over his hips, his chest moving heavily under his, and he, _god,_ he was still inside him, but - he winced as he pulled out - he’d started to soften. So had Eliot, from what he could tell without pulling away, and he… didn’t want to. Not yet. “Holy shit,” he murmured, pressing his face against Eliot’s shoulder.

“Holy shit,” Eliot agreed, then huffed a breathless laugh of disbelief.

His laughter was infectious, and Quentin found himself grinning into his skin. The press of his lips against his shoulder was automatic, and it took him a few seconds to realise that the fog around his mind was mostly post-coital, that the urge to taste him, to hold him close, was slipping into something more familiar, something he could fight against… but why would he want to, when he was here, with Eliot’s fingers scratching at his scalp, his other arm loose around his waist. The relief he felt was staggering. “I think I’m finally coming down from the pollen,” he said, meaning, _I’m coming down from the pollen and I still want you, please tell me you still want_ me _._

Eliot’s hand slid up his back in one long, firm stroke that was too… easy, too familiar, for him to hold onto the worry that had started eating him up. This was _Eliot_ , who above and beyond anything else, was his _friend_ , who cared for him, who - well, who flirted with him constantly, and he’d _thought_ it had been a joke, but maybe it -

“Pollen?” Eliot asked, and Quentin’s dissipating worry was suddenly an icy grip around his heart.

His breath frozen in his chest, Quentin found his arms underneath him and pushed himself up on the bed, his hands on the mattress either side of Eliot. Eliot blinked slowly up at him, his brow furrowing after a moment, confusion clear on his face. He couldn’t mean what he thought he meant… But _how could he not know?_ “What did you think was happening?” he asked, trying not to let the growing panic inside him build.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Eliot raised his eyebrow at him, and Quentin felt sick at the grin that stretched across his face. “What, like _sex pollen?”_ he asked skeptically, his laughter cutting short when Quentin flinched at the sound. He couldn’t - oh, _fuck_ , he was still lying stretched out across Eliot, who… who he’d thought had been going through the same thing he had been. He scrambled back onto his knees, his stomach dropping at the wariness in Eliot’s eyes where before he’d only seen longing. From _Eliot_ , who could have had him at any point since he’d gotten to Brakebills, and yet _hadn’t_. “You’ve been under the effect of sex pollen,” he said slowly, the strain in his voice just confirming everything that Quentin had feared.

“And you… haven’t,” he said, screwing his face up and looking away. He’d just _accosted_ him at the top of the stairs and - and he’d been _rough_ , he’d been almost _mindless_ at some points. It hit him suddenly, how frantic he’d been, how delirious he’d felt to finally let himself feel a body on his. He’d thought Eliot had been eager, that he’d wanted him, but -

But what if he couldn’t trust his memory.

His lungs were burning, and he managed to take in a deep breath, shaky as it was. “I thought - I thought that everyone in the Cottage was hit with it,” he said, knowing he sounded desperate, but it couldn’t be true, he couldn’t - “You looked like you were -”

“Drunk? Less so, now,” Eliot said, and Quentin flinched. He caught the movement out the corner of his eye when Eliot drew his legs up close. Like he wanted to put as much space between them as he could. “Margo and I went to a bar. I told you I was out with her.”

Quentin’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard before he tried to speak. “You said…” He couldn’t remember what he’d said. Something about Margo, but… but he hadn’t been able to think about anything other than how much he’d wanted to tear his clothes off the second he’d laid eyes on him. And if he was confusing that, then was he confusing how into it Eliot had been? Had he been rougher than he’d thought? He glanced down before he could stop himself, and felt his stomach twist at the red fingerprints on the backs of Eliot’s thighs, the angry marks his mouth had left on his neck and shoulder. “I - I’m sorry, I - I have to -”

Eliot straightened when Quentin scrambled back off of the bed. He found his jeans first and tugged them on, stumbling as his leg got caught because _of course it did._ He scooped up his shirt and one shoe, but immediately decided to leave the other when he couldn’t find it with a glance. He felt claustrophobic, like the room wasn’t big enough for him and Eliot and the unease in Eliot’s eyes.

“Quentin,” Eliot said, painfully reluctant, but Quentin didn’t slow, twisting the doorknob quickly and fleeing Eliot’s bedroom, clutching his shirt and his shoe to his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin talk about the night before.

 

Closing his eyes, Eliot brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, and if his hands were shaking, at least he couldn’t see them.

His world narrowed to the burn of smoke in his lungs, the points in the crystal glass in his hand, the warmth of Margo's bare feet in his lap. The common room was busier than usual for this time of the day, but there was a subdued air to the room that only set him on edge.

Shutting himself in his room hadn’t helped. The silence there was deafening, and his hangover hadn't been able to take the volume of music it would take to drown it out.

It had eased now, tempered by Tylenol and bourbon and the familiar tone of Margo's voice as she rattled on about her night after he'd left her to destroy the woman that he'd left her with last night.

His pounding head had been the least of his problems, but sure, fix that and leave the rest, _great_.

Stubbing out his cigarette, he lit another with a quick twist of his fingers, his third in ten minutes. A swirl of the glass in his hand reminded him that it was empty, and he briefly considered dislodging Margo's feet in order to refill it, but then decided against it.

Floating the bottle over was easier anyway.

He poured two fingers, downed half of it, and then poured again, and if his glass was half full when he floated the bottle back to the coffee table, _it was an accident officer, I swear._ Taking another 'sip', he steadied the glass on his lap beside Margo's ankle and leaned his head on the back of the couch, wishing he could block out the entire world with just him and Margo inside.

Yesterday, he'd have invited Quentin to join them in his happiness bubble, but he'd gone and fucked up any chance of that happening, hadn’t he?

He'd woken late in the morning, having missed his first lesson and having no intention of dragging himself to the others, and he wasn't the only one. Because half of the ottage had been up half the night fucking each other thanks to sex pollen.

Including Quentin, apparently.

Quentin had gone to class, or at least he wasn't in the cottage. Not that he'd checked. Margo had told him that she'd passed him on her way in and his way out, and when she'd commented that he must have had a big night — well, he hadn't had anything to say to that.

“If I’d have known what I was missing here, though,” Margo said, and he opened his eyes for a moment to see her wiping the brush against the bottle of nail polish, the royal blue liquid welling for a moment against the lip of the bottle, “I would have just come home with you. I thought my night was going to be a banger, but I didn’t know everyone’s night here was going to be a _banger._ ”

“Mmm,” he said, turning his gaze towards the ceiling. He didn’t usually feel the need to pull it out with Margo, but he was well versed in half-listening to a conversation and making enough of the right sounds at the right times to keep the other person talking. Margo had essentially held a one-sided conversation for the past twenty minutes, and that was just what he was in the mood for. The highs and lows of her voice kept the thought of last night away, the thought of Quentin’s hands on him, his mouth, his tongue —

His body, pressed firm against his. The thoroughly _wretched_ sounds that he’d made when he’d barely even touched him. His eager hands, pulling him closer and closer and closer, until there was no space between them, nothing between them except for the pleasure they could wring out of each other. Eliot hadn’t been able to believe that Quentin had actually wanted that, wanted _him_ , especially with so much abandon, and he hadn’t let himself think twice about it. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d first laid eyes on the rumpled little first year walking across the lawn, squinting against the bright afternoon sun, that he didn’t have some kind of _want_ when he thought of Quentin Coldwater.

He wanted to show him the wonder of the magic that he already loved so impossibly much. He wanted to see him smile, to see him laugh, to _make_ him laugh. He’d seen his brow furrow and wanted to know whether that was the face he made when he came. He wanted to wreck him and protect him in equal measure.

He wanted to _know_ him.

The fact that Quentin had finally seemed to want him back had… it had erased every coherent thought in his head — too caught up in the way Quentin, this high-strung nerd who he’d been crushing on for the past three months, hadn’t seemed to be able to get him close enough.

Except… none of it had been real. Quentin’s agency had been taken away, and Eliot had taken full advantage of that.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known. He _should_ have known. It was that simple.

He wasn’t surprised to learn that sex pollen was real — had quickly learned not to be surprised by anything after magic had burst its way into his life — but he’d never thought it would bring him so completely undone like this. He hadn’t thought about what it meant, that someone wouldn’t be able to say no to the urges of their body, that someone wouldn’t be able to say no to the desperate need for pleasure and relief. He should have said no, he should have realised that Quentin wasn’t just drunk like he’d thought… and even if he’d been drunk, he should have known that it wasn’t what Quentin wanted. He’d been as obvious as he could with his flirting without actually throwing himself at him, and he’d never once shown an interest in return.

But he’d been so caught up in finally getting what he’d wanted that he hadn’t let himself question it. Instead, he’d slept with someone who wasn’t capable of making decisions. Someone who, immediately when he realised what had happened, had clearly instantly regretted it.

 _The way he’d ran out of his room, half dressed, not even able to look at him_ …

Flinching away from the thought, he lifted his head and flicked the ash from his forgotten cigarette, took one last long draw before stubbing it out. Raising his glass, he paused, staring at the amber liquid. If he’d been sober, he would have known. _He should have known._

Dropping his glass back to his lap with a sigh, he turned his attention back to Margo — except Margo wasn’t speaking anymore. Twisting his neck to look at her, he froze under the bemused look on her face. She pressed her lips together, tightening the cap on the nail polish before setting it aside and lifting her hand to admire the colour. “Feel free to stop sulking about missing out on all the sex at _any time_ ,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

If he opened his mouth to respond, he was going to snap at her, and he wasn’t drunk enough to want to sabotage _all_ of his relationships in twenty four hours. “Hmm,” he said, sinking back lower in the couch. He’d give anything to trade Quentin’s hurt for that one.

Margo snorted under her breath, her foot nudging his thigh playfully. “Don’t worry, El. You’ll get over it the next time you find somewhere to put your dick.”

Eliot drained the rest of his whiskey.

The front door opened just as Eliot was setting his glass on the coffee table beside him, and when he caught sight of Quentin in the doorway the glass slipped from his fingers, falling the inch or so onto the table and clattering against the wood. Quentin’s eyes followed the sound, and when he stiffened as they landed on him Eliot felt that like a knife in his gut. He looked… god, he looked _tired_. His face was pinched, his knuckles around the strap of his messenger bag white. The knife twisted at the staggered rise of Quentin’s chest as he took an uneven breath, and Eliot dropped his eyes, not strong enough to deal with Quentin’s discomfort.

Except that was _bullshit_. He had no right to shy away from it, not when he was the one who had caused it. He forced himself to look up again and inhaled sharply to see Quentin’s head down as he practically ran up the stairs. _He feels like this because of you. He’s hiding because of you._

Well, _Eliot_ couldn’t hide. Not any longer. He could sit here and simmer in his own self-disgust and regret, or he could… maybe he couldn’t fix it, maybe Quentin would never want to look at him again, but he could at least _apologise_ , he could at least _try._ If he didn’t want anything to do with him from now on then he wouldn’t stop him from pushing him away, but he owed Quentin that, at least.

Pushing Margo’s feet off of his lap, he ignored her protests and the curious looks from around the room and followed Quentin up the stairs, taking them two at a time and tuning out the voice in the back of his head that told him how much easier it would be to just turn around and let it be. In his experience, anything difficult or uncomfortable wasn’t worth the effort.

Quentin was worth the effort.

His bedroom door was open, and all of Eliot’s determination bled out when he saw Quentin lying on his bed, his legs hanging over the edge and his hands over his face. He paused in the doorway, his heart in his throat as Quentin dragged his hands down his face, gripped at the neck of his shirt for a few seconds, and then sighed heavily. Pushing his elbows back on the bed, he opened his eyes as he sat up on the edge of the bed — freezing when he saw him.

Eliot watched as Quentin’s throat worked as he swallowed, his hands gripping tightly at the quilt by his sides, and fought the urge to look away again. He felt… raw, vulnerable, stretched out thin. None of that mattered. “Q —”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” He stopped short, not sure he’d heard correctly, but… but Quentin’s jaw was set, his sad eyes firm on his, looking like he was fighting for that same determination that Eliot was. Giving himself a shake, he made his body move, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He thought he’d have to fight to have this conversation, to get Quentin to listen to him long enough for him to apologise, but an apology from _Quentin_ was already the furthest thing from what he’d expected.

Quentin stood up but hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed, and he didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing. Eliot stayed near the door, not wanting to crowd him — any more than he was, anyway. “Why are _you_ sorry?” he continued. How could he possibly think that he had _anything_ to apologise for? “Quentin, _I’m_ sorry. I took advantage of you. I didn’t — didn’t know, but — that doesn’t change it.” He felt like his skin was crawling, and the urge to _abort abort abort_ was almost impossible to ignore.

“Eliot, that’s —”

He held up his hand to stop him, and then hated himself for it when Quentin cut himself off. He forced down the instinct to make a joke about not needing to pick up people who were too drugged up to control themselves. A failed attempt at grim humour wouldn’t help anybody, no matter how safe it felt right now, and Quentin deserved better than that. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed down the lump in his throat and looked at Quentin, really looked at him. He looked… sad and confused and like he deserved so much more than Eliot could offer him.

Imagine, thinking that someday…

“I thought it was what you wanted,” Eliot said, forcing the words out quickly, lest they not come out at all. _I wanted it too badly, I would have taken you whatever part of you that you wanted to share with me._ “I should have known that you weren’t in control of yourself, that it’s not what you’d want. I thought we were both just drunk.” Which still didn’t make him sound any better. He covered his face with his hands, let them slide up to pull at his hair, before dropping them to his sides with a groan. He forced his mouth into a smile, ignoring the voice in his head that cried _coward_. “You know, not too drunk not to know what you were doing, just the… fun kind of drunk, the… lose your inhibitions and act on what you wanted kind… of… drunk.”

He let himself trail off, knowing just how stupid he sounded, how pointless it all was. Nothing could explain away what he did. Or how much he wished it had been something simple like a drunken hookup. “I thought that’s what it was,” he finished weakly.

Quentin was staring at him so earnestly that he felt sick with it. He knew, before Quentin spoke, that he would try to make it better for him, because _of course he would_. Quentin was always so intent on making everyone else happy, so _goddamned fucking selfless_ , that he hadn’t even told him, hadn’t even stopped him, hadn’t… hadn’t told him, yet, that he was angry with him, that he was hurt, that he was betrayed. Quentin reached a hand out in supplication, and Eliot wasn’t even _surprised._ “Eliot, I _used_ you.”

Eliot forced a smile, tried to brush it off. “It’s not like it wasn’t good,” he tried, shrugging half-heartedly.

The flash of pain across Quentin’s face would have been enough to cut him down, if he hadn’t already known how pointless and hurtful his comment had been. “Eliot…”

Letting go of any attempts to try and make this okay, Eliot took a step away from the door, and then stopped. Crowding him wasn’t going to make it any better, either. He should have just left well enough alone, should have let him flee upstairs and away from him rather than following him. So… he’d say his piece, and then he’d leave. “Quentin —”

“No,” he said firmly, his eyes fierce as he looked up at him. “You don’t have to pretend that it’s okay. I know you don’t like… me like that,” he said, his voice faltering just as Eliot’s breath did, because how could he possibly think that was the truth? He held his gaze for a few more seconds before it dropped to a point halfway down his vest. “I resisted everyone else for so long, but when I saw you I couldn’t stop myself, and… I’m sorry.”

 _He couldn’t stop himself… what?_ Eliot stared at him, trying to figure out how Quentin had made anything close to those connections in his head. It was a Coldwater Special to try and make everything his fault, but this was something else. And… his mind went back to what Quentin had first said. “I’m not pretending anything,” he said flatly. Quentin’s mouth pressed firm, like he was uncomfortable with facing this, or… or like he thought he was lying. Eliot paused, unable to let himself chase too far after this thought, and yet… “What part of what happened last night makes you think that I don’t like you like that?” he asked, painfully aware of how _into it_ he’d been.

Quentin’s eyes were burning into the ground, his brow furrowed deeply. He pulled his lower lip in between his teeth, rolled it out slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet that Eliot had to resist the urge to step forward to hear him better. “I don’t feel like I can trust my memories of how… it was.”

Eliot stared at him incredulously. “Which part? The part where I was absolutely wrecked by how much I wanted you?” Quentin’s mouth twisted into a grimace, and Eliot paused, his blood running cold as he realised that he might actually mean what he was saying. “Wait,” he said slowly, ducking his head to try and get him to look at him. “Are you saying you think I didn’t want it? That you…” He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to put into words what _he_ felt like he’d done to _Quentin_ , “that you forced me into it?”

Finally, Quentin lifted his eyes to look at him, and they were so haunted that Eliot almost wished he hadn’t. “Didn’t I?” he asked, and the amount of distress in those two words made Eliot want to curl in on himself.

Instead, he forced himself to take stock of the situation again. The way the Quentin had reacted when he found out that Eliot hadn’t been affected by the pollen ( _not_ , he realised, _because of the pollen itself, but because Eliot_ hadn’t _been affected_ ), of how he was looking at him now. What if… He thought back to what he’d said — _when I saw you I couldn’t stop myself_ — and… “Quentin,” he said slowly. “Why couldn’t you stop yourself with me?” If Quentin… If Quentin _wanted_ him...

“What?”

Daring to take a step closer, he waited a few seconds for the automatic tension to ease from Quentin’s shoulders, and then took another. He wasn’t going to let himself think too far ahead, wasn’t going to let himself hope. And yet... “You just said, that you resisted everyone else but you couldn’t stop with me. Why?”

Quentin’s skin flushed, the reddening of his cheeks blossoming over his neck and down under the collar of his shirt. “No reason,” he said stiffly, suddenly looking everywhere but at Eliot once more.

The last thing he wanted to do was push him, but… but the discomfort Quentin carried now looked so much more like the regular anxious Quentin he knew, rather than the hurt and angry and confused Quentin that he was terrified of. “Please,” Eliot said softly. “If you want me to go, I’ll go, as soon as you say the word,” he added, belatedly remembering to put voice to the reassurance that he should have offered from the start, “but please. It’s important. What happened last night — is that something that you wanted… before? Before the pollen, before…?”

Quentin’s arms wrapped tightly around his stomach for a moment before loosening slightly. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he spoke, and Eliot felt every second. “Maybe,” he said eventually. And then — “Yes.”

Maybe. _Yes_ — three syllables that had Eliot’s heart balancing on a knife’s edge. He could. He could take a chance, and Quentin would feel the same or he wouldn’t, but at least he’d know. “Quentin,” he said, taking a slow step closer, steeling himself when Quentin’s eyes lifted to meet his. He needed to be brave, needed to be _honest_ , if he has any chance of fixing this. He was terrified. But he owed Quentin that bravery, that honesty. “I couldn’t stop myself with you either,” he said, keeping his voice low and his eyes firm on Quentin’s. There was no hiding from this, not anymore. All or nothing. “I thought you wanted me, finally, and I wanted it so badly I didn’t stop to think twice about it.” Eliot took a deep breath, took a leap. “Are you mad at me for that?” If he said yes, he’d be out of there in a heartbeat. He’d walk away and never see him again, if that’s what he wanted.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “No.”

His hands were shaking. When had his hands started shaking? He curled them into fists, pressed them against his thighs. Took another step closer. If he reached out, he’d be able to touch him. His arms stayed by his sides. “I’ll believe you, if you believe me. Does that sound fair?”

“Eliot, you don’t have to –”

“I know I don’t,” he said quickly. “And I didn’t before, either, but I wanted to.” Gathering his courage, he closed the last bit of distance between them and slowly, slowly lifted his hand, giving Quentin every chance to stop him if he wanted to. He didn’t. Quentin’s eyes fluttered when his palm settled on his neck, but after a moment they landed firmly on him once more. “I want to,” he said, meeting Quentin’s eyes carefully, watching the skin around them crease.

He was so intent on Quentin’s face that he didn’t notice his hands moving until they settled on his waist. His touch was light at first, before his hands pressed more firmly against his sides. “So do it,” he said, his breath hitching as soon as the words had fallen past his lips.

His hand had slipped around to the back of Quentin’s neck before he’d registered that he was moving, and he made himself loosen his grip as he slowly bent his head towards him, but Quentin didn’t pull away. He felt his indrawn breath the moment before he pressed his lips against his.

Keeping the kiss soft, Eliot slid his hand down Quentin’s neck to his shoulder, giving him every chance to pull back, resisting the urge to pull him _closer._ Making a sound at the back of his throat, Quentin tilted his head slightly, his lips parting underneath his to deepen the kiss, and Eliot… he wanted to slip his arms around him, to pull him closer, to let himself drown in the feeling of Quentin’s body against his, his hands on him, his mouth gasping into his…

Eliot pulled away.

His hands gripping tightly at Eliot’s waist, he leaned up into him, chasing after Eliot’s mouth, and — and it’s not what he was going for, but elation bubbled up in him just the same, with the hope that Quentin actually wanted him. Quentin’s mouth pressed against the corner of his before his head turned, pressing his nose against Eliot’s cheek, and he leaned into it. It was more than he’d expected, more than he deserved, to have Quentin here, in his arms, not turning him away. Wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

“I wanted to,” Quentin said, his breath fanning out across his cheek with each word before he pulled back enough that Eliot could see the determination in his eyes. The determination… and the light, the happiness. “For a while, I — I want to. Again.”

It couldn’t be that easy… could it? “You want to?” Eliot said, trying to regulate the sudden lift of his heart, the desperate note in his voice, but he couldn’t keep any of it in check, not with the way Quentin’s smile lit up his face completely. He couldn’t help his answering grin as Quentin turned his face up toward him once more, the fingers of one hand threading through his hair.

Instead of kissing him again, Quentin drew his lower lip between his teeth, uncertainty clouding his eyes, and Eliot’s grip loosened around him immediately. Before he could pull away entirely though, Quentin’s hand dropped to the back of his neck, keeping his eyes firm on him and staring up at him earnestly. He was nervous, not unsure, Eliot realised, and his half-smile relaxed the tension in Eliot’s shoulders. “I mean it, Eliot. And I don’t just mean… like last night.” And god, he was _blushing_ , Eliot wanted to swallow him _whole._ “I want… you.”

Quentin’s thumb stroked lightly at the back of his neck, and Eliot felt that movement shiver all the way through him, mixing with the hope and longing bubbling up inside him. And the terror — that was very real, too, and the combination would have been enough to undo him if it weren’t for Quentin’s grip on him, steadying him, grounding him. He wanted him, really wanted him. Eliot: Fuck-up Extraordinaire — Quentin wanted _him_.

Quentin kept talking, like he wasn’t shifting Eliot’s entire world. “I — I _emphatically_ want the sex,” he said, flushing even redder but holding his gaze steady, and — yeah, okay, _that_ was enough to break him out of his spiral of disbelief. “I want… to stay the night, and… have breakfast in the morning, and…”

Eliot felt himself growing warmer and warmer with every word. This was just Quentin, right? Quentin, one of his best friends, who he was probably a little in love with, telling him he wanted to be with him. Slipping one arm around his waist, Eliot pulled him closer, brushing his hair back from his face with the other, and felt overwhelmed by the tenderness he found there. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he forced a smile that was much more carefree than he felt. “Oh, breakfast?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “That thing we already do every morning?”

“Like that… or not.” Quentin looked up at him through his eyelashes, so goddamned earnest, and Eliot couldn’t make himself hold onto the banter that he was clinging to like armour. It was so unlike Quentin to just come out and say what he wanted, and he knew that this was important, that he had to handle this right, that if he shut it down he was never going to get another chance at this. And he wanted to have breakfast with him — sure, they already did most days, but he wanted it after crawling out of bed together, warm and fuzzy from sleeping in each others arms. He wanted to never stop making him smile. He wanted to show the whole world how much he cared for him, how much he mattered, and keep it for himself at the same time, safe and close and private and _his._

The strength of that want terrified him, particularly for something so regular, so simple.

Except the thought of doing those things with _Quentin_ didn’t feel simple.

Slipping the palm of his hand to settle on Quentin’s cheek, he pulled him just a little closer. “Breakfast sounds good,” he said, letting his lips quirk into the hopeful smile that he’d been trying to suppress. “And everything in between.”

Quentin’s eyes were alight. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing when Quentin immediately closed the final distance between them to press his warm lips to his.

The laughter died quickly, however, replaced with a rush of desire as Quentin's hand found the small of his back, pulling him bodily against him. Tilting his head, he parted Quentin's mouth with his own, deepening the kiss, swallowing his sigh and feeling his chest swell with Quentin's happiness, with his own.

Quentin's hands smoothed up his back and then back to his waist, his arms tightening around him for a moment before he broke away, dropping his head to rest his forehead against Eliot's chest. Eliot pressed his lips to the top of Quentin's head, just because he could, and the way he leaned into him in response lessened his worry at the groan he felt as much as heard. "I have to go."

"I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that right," Eliot said, pulling back to look at him incredulously. “I thought we were having a moment here.” He let his lips twitch up into a smirk, letting him know he didn’t mean it.

“I — oh my god I can’t believe I’m saying this right now, but — Julia’s downstairs waiting for me.” Pulling back slightly, Quentin grimaced at him. “She was just a minute or two behind me, and I was only going to come up to grab a textbook, I... She missed the first class today and we have a test tomorrow, we were going to go through it together.”

Eliot shrugged, slipping back into nonchalance as easy as breathing. “That’s fine. I’m also totally ambivalent about whether we’re making out right now or not.”

He felt Quentin’s back tense beneath his hands, and squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds against his own frustration — at himself, at his inability to respond to anything without sarcasm or trying to brush it off. “Eliot…” Quentin said, and the uncertainty in his voice was a stronger rebuke than any he could give himself.

This whole thing was so fresh and new and fragile, and he knew the balance was still precarious, no matter how much he wanted it, or… or the fact that he could believe (maybe, a little) that Quentin wanted it too. “I’m kidding. Hey, I’m kidding.” Lifting one hand to settle on Quentin’s neck, he stroked his thumb lightly across his jaw. “Go study with Julia. Of course. But I get you all night afterwards. If that’s what you want.”

And just that quickly, the tension seeped out of Quentin, replaced by that flush spreading across his skin again. He was so painfully adorable when he was all squirmy, leaning into the palm of Eliot’s hand, his body angling towards his almost like he didn’t know he was doing it, and how was he supposed to keep his hands off of him? “I, ah — yeah. Yes,” Quentin said. “I… want that.”

Eliot couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at how painfully obvious it was that Quentin wasn’t used to asking for what he wanted. “You’re adorable,” he said fondly, and meant _thank you for trying._

Quentin’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He could feel Quentin’s lips break into a smile just as he pressed them to his, felt the light huff of his laughter.

Quentin’s hand was warm and firm in his as Eliot followed him down the stairs to the common room. A part of him regretted taking a moment to straighten Quentin’s collar and the wild angles of the hair at the back of his head, but today wasn’t the day for Quentin to dwell on looking so well-kissed in public.

Julia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, on the other side of the long, low coffee table in front of the couch, talking to Margo. She’d sat up properly on one end of the couch, and Eliot gave Quentin’s hand a squeeze before he dropped it to join her, stretching out along it without preamble and resting his head in her lap. “Look, Bambi, we have guests.”

“ _I_ have a guest,” Quentin said pointedly, looking at Julia and rolling his eyes in their direction. “And the two of you aren’t going to distract us.” Even as he spoke, he sank down onto the floor right beside them, leaning back on the couch with his head against Eliot’s side, and it was nothing at all for Eliot to drop his hand down to touch his neck, to tweak at a strand of his hair, to curl around his shoulder.

He could feel Margo’s eyes on them, and assumed Julia’s were as well, so he left it at that for now. He wasn’t expecting a response from Quentin, would have been happy for him simply not to shake him off, and so he wasn’t expecting the thrill that went through him when he reached up to squeeze his wrist gently before picking up the textbook he’d brought with him from his room.

It was an effort to keep his face neutral as he turned it toward Margo but he managed it, and was surprised by the _lack_ of surprise he found there. She regarded him for a moment before apparently deciding not to press the issue now and turning her smirk onto Quentin. “Oh look, puppy’s grown some teeth.”

Clearing his throat lightly, Quentin determinedly kept his attention on Julia, and Eliot squeezed his shoulder. Quentin’s chin lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile as he started telling Julia about what she’d missed in their first class.

Margo’s hand found his, curling around it where it rested on his chest while the fingers of the other threaded through his hair, and Eliot let out his breath in a slow sigh, feeling his body truly relax for the first time since yesterday. This felt so normal, linked to the two people who mattered most to him, just a regular afternoon with the last remains of a hangover and no plans at all for the rest of the day.

It was more than he deserved. Quentin had forgiven him — had seemed like he didn’t think there was anything to forgive. The thought that Quentin might have been spending the day beating himself up for pushing more on Eliot than he’d wanted had never occurred to him. He’d been sure that Quentin would have known that he’d take anything he’d give him.

He was going to make sure he knew, now.

He had absolutely _zero_ interest in whatever test Quentin and Julia had tomorrow morning, but he found his attention focused on them more and more anyway. Particularly on the way that Quentin kept his distance from her even as he leaned across the table to point out a certain passage of his notes, or the way that Julia seemed to pause a moment before she answered any of his questions, or the way that she didn’t seem to be able to hold Quentin’s gaze for more than half a second at a time. He wished he could see Quentin’s face.

Stroking his fingers along the side of Quentin’s neck, he smiled faintly when he squirmed a little, hoping he was being comforting and not making it worse.

His thoughts went back to what Quentin had told him, that he’d managed to ignore everyone’s advances until he’d seen Eliot. It wasn’t a large jump, considering Quentin and Julia’s obvious weirdness with each other, that something had almost happened between them. Which… he knew all about Quentin’s childhood… teenage… last year crush on Julia, and could only imagine the kind of awkwardness a near miss like that would cause.

Unless the problem wasn’t that something had almost happened, but that something _had._

And if something had happened… he certainly wasn’t going to begrudge him any sexcapades he’d had before him, because why should that even be a thing, but why had he felt the need to lie about it?

The sound of the front door opening wasn’t quite enough to lift him out of _that_ thought spiral, and so he was already feeling uneasy when Quentin glanced up and stiffened under Eliot’s hand. Frowning, he followed Quentin’s gaze and saw Alice closing the door behind her, gesturing for Penny to follow her across the room to where Kady sat in the library. Julia twisted around to see what they were looking at, her words dying on her lips when she saw who was standing there, her shoulders visibly tensing.

Obviously realising that they were being stared at on multiple accounts, neither Penny or Alice made any immediate moves to step further into the room, and Eliot really wished he was placed at a different angle because it was impossible to tell who was looking at _whom,_ and he _really_ had to know what was going on.

“Okay, someone spill on who actually fucked whom last night because I am getting _all_ sorts of mixed signals here,” Margo said, exasperated.

Nobody answered her, and suddenly no one was looking at anyone else either, except for Eliot, who’s eyes darted around the room, trying to look at everyone at once. The silence in the room grew thicker and thicker, and he couldn’t lie down anymore, felt too vulnerable to be stretched out on the couch, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself either.

After a few more seconds Margo sighed heavily, and he took the slight — _slight —_ break in the tension to push himself up, turning so that he sat just on the other side of Quentin, his leg pressing lightly against his side. Just… making himself present. That was all. He still couldn’t see Quentin’s face.

He could see Margo’s, and he was fairly sure that if she rolled her eyes any harder they’d roll all the way around. “Look. I get it. It’s awkward. But this isn’t junior year. Some of you fucked, who cares?” She waved her hand dismissively, either oblivious or uncaring about whether the people in the room were comfortable facing last night or not. She clearly wasn’t going to give them any other option. He was cringing internally just as much as he was grateful for her. “Some of you fucked more than one person. I don’t know if you’re burrowing in to the carpet to avoid Penny or Alice or _both_ , Coldwater, but just _embrace_ it. Either way — good for you!”

“This is ridiculous,” Penny said gruffly, without moving from the other side of the room.

Eliot’s attention wasn’t on him. Quentin’s back straightened the moment she suggested he was trying to make himself small, but his arms remained tight around his stomach. His head turned slightly, but stopped before he could meet Eliot’s eye. “I didn’t sleep with Penny _or_ Alice,” he muttered to his knees.

Eliot shot a warning look at Margo, who only winked at him.  “But what else did you do?” Margo pressed, grinning wickedly as she leaned forward to get a better look at Quentin’s face.

“I — nothing,” he said quickly.

Julia was slowly turning redder. Alice was frowning, and Penny looking more and more irritated with every passing moment. Eliot couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had happened, but it was clear enough. He snorted quietly. “What happened to this steadfast resolve that I’ve heard so much about?” He’d meant the words to tease, but he knew before Quentin stiffened that that wasn’t how they’d come across. He saw his shoulders rise and fall, watched as he pulled away, just slightly, so that he was no longer leaning against Eliot’s leg, and wished that he could last five minutes without fucking everything up. “Q —”

“He had more than most,” Julia said, and his apology died on his lips at the finality in her voice. Her eyes were firmly on the books spread out on the table before her, but after a moment she lifted them to meet his. His already considerable respect for her intensified at the determination on her face, in the set of her shoulders. “I don’t think it brought up any instincts that weren’t already there,” she said, clearly refusing to let herself hide from it anymore. “Some people were just harder to ignore than others.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet?” Margo said dryly, then smiled brightly. “And just like that, the tension’s broken!”

Pointedly ignoring her, Eliot leaned forward to cover Quentin’s shoulder with his hand, waiting to be sure he wasn’t going to pull away before he reached lower, sliding his hand down his arm until he grasped his wrist. He didn’t pull away, and when he turned his head to look at him it was with obvious reluctance, but it was better than nothing. “Hey,” he said, tugging on his wrist. He was vaguely aware of Penny and Alice finally moving away from the door, but he wasn’t going to let his focus be dragged anywhere aside from Quentin right now.

When it became clear that Quentin wasn’t going to make it easy for him to pull him on the couch like he wanted, in an effort to create some semblance of a private moment when he could feel Margo and Julia’s eyes on them, Eliot shifted across slightly on the couch so that he sat directly behind Quentin, and bent down to press his cheek against Quentin’s. “For what it’s worth,” he said under his breath, “I haven’t been able to ignore you since you walked up to me on the day of your entrance exam.”

He felt the deep breath that Quentin took, and let his eyes flutter shut when he leaned into him. A hand brushed against the other side of his head, holding him in close, and he turned his head slightly to press his lips against Quentin’s wrist. “Me either. So how about we stop assuming that the other is lying and just… be okay with all of this?”

That almost sounded _too_ logical. But he was willing to give it a go. “Sir, yes sir,” he murmured against Quentin’s skin, and smiled in relief at his quiet laugh.

At that, Quentin let him pull him up onto the couch, settling in between him and Margo, and foolishly attempted to continue studying with Julia. Eliot’s intention hadn’t been to distract him when he slipped his arm around his waist and started tracing patterns up and down his side through his t-shirt — he honestly just wanted to touch him, to be close to him, but when he saw the way Quentin shifted against the brush of his fingers he had to do it again. And again, until Quentin was pressed firmly against his side, leaning heavily into him.

Tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, Eliot slipped his fingers beneath the fabric and squeezed lightly at his waist, burying his smirk against Quentin’s shoulder at the shiver that ran through him. Quentin’s hand closed over his, pulling it away even as his body turned into him. “I’m going to kill you,” he said under his breath.

“I look forward to it,” Eliot murmured.

Huffing a laugh, Quentin pulled back. His eyes were crinkled into a smile, even as he fought to keep his mouth straight. “You’re the worst. Remember that deal that we made like… half an hour ago?”

 _Studying with Julia. Eliot’s for the rest of the night_. Oh, he remembered. “Mmhmm,” he said cheerfully, extricating himself from Quentin and standing up from the couch. He was perfectly capable of giving Quentin time to do his thing.

He wasn’t going to tempt fate by staying within reach of him, though.

Deciding to keep himself busy, he retreated to the bar. Making drinks for everyone didn’t take his full attention, so as his hands worked he let his mind and his gaze wander over the group of people spread throughout his cottage.

From this angle, he could see the trio in the library. He watched Alice’s eyes continually dart up from the book in front of her to look at Kady, the way Penny was looking at Julia right up until she glanced across at him. The pieces started to slowly click together, and by the time he returned to the couch with a tray full of cocktails he was fairly confident that he had a good grasp of who had paired up last night.

Quentin looked up at him with a smile, almost shy, as Eliot lowered the tray onto the table beside Julia’s books, and felt a rush of relief that they’d already had a chance to talk. Any of the other details, anything he didn’t know didn’t matter. He had — somehow — not managed to royally fuck everything up with one of the people who mattered most to him. The smile he gave Quentin in return was easy and warm, and he lifted his drink in salute as Quentin mouthed _thank you_.

By the time Quentin had caught Julia up on what she’d missed from their class (and Julia had helped Quentin with the bits he hadn’t quite gotten his head around), Penny had Travelled out for pizza, and the others had joined them in the common room. Quentin had pulled him down on the couch beside him as he ate, then curled up against him, resting the textbook on Eliot’s thigh as he listened to Julia’s explanation of something to do with how the penguins in the Arctic affected the moon which affected the Circumstances, and...

Okay, maybe he wasn’t really listening.

And neither was Quentin, he realised, when he shifted against him, burrowing his face in against his shoulder. The low, contented sound he made in the back of his throat took Eliot by surprise, because — yeah, he’d fallen asleep on him.

It wasn’t like it was a big surprise, really. Eliot’s exhaustion was only held back by the ridiculous amount of coffee that he’d inhaled throughout the day, and the thrill of having Quentin in his arms. He didn’t know what Quentin had done after he’d left last night, but it stood to reason that he’d gotten as little sleep as he had, _and_ he’d braved the big scary world of school today while Eliot had lain abed and felt sorry for himself.

Moving carefully, he slid his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, gathering him against him and smiling when Quentin relaxed into him so easily. He glanced up, suddenly feeling protective and nervous all at once, but the only person who was watching them was Julia, and sure, the look in her eyes was thoughtful, but the quirk of her lips was encouraging.

It was maybe only ten minutes before Quentin stirred against him, turning his face against his chest for a moment before pulling back. His hand stayed twisted in Eliot’s shirt, and he had to remind himself to care about the safety of the silk. He’d care later, he assured himself. Quentin blinked up at him for a few seconds, his eyes dark and shining, before he glanced around the room. “Did I…?”

“Sure did,” Eliot said, squeezing his arm around him before loosening his grip and reaching over for the textbook that Quentin had abandoned not so long ago. “Come on, sleepy head. Let’s get you to bed. For sleeping,” he added loudly, looking around at the smirks and rolled eyes surrounding them with his best offended look. “The poor boy’s tired,” he said, patting Quentin’s cheek lightly for effect.

Quentin followed willingly when Eliot pulled him to his feet, squeezing Eliot’s hand when he didn’t let it go, and that shouldn’t have pleased him so much considering he’d just been cuddling into him and he was now taking him upstairs to his bedroom, but it did, and he brought their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of his hand as they climbed the stairs.

It wasn’t until Eliot closed his bedroom door behind them that Quentin turned toward him, his brow furrowed slightly. He opened his mouth, closed it again, his eyes darting to the floor, to the bed, and back again. His teeth pulled at his bottom lip nervously, and when Eliot shook himself out of the thought of taking that lip between his, he realised he was nervous. “Are we really just going to be sleeping?”

Wrapping his free arm around Quentin’s waist, he pulled him in close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “If that’s what you want,” he said, and meant it. He would have been just as happy to crawl into bed beside him and breathe him in until they both fell asleep, which — fuck, he was so far gone.

The shadow of fear that started to press in on him at that thought dissolved when Quentin leaned up on his tiptoes and kissed him, grounding him in the touch of his mouth on his, in the grip of his hand on the back of his head, in the quiet, satisfied sigh when Eliot kissed him back.

Quentin dropped back to stand flat on his feet, and Eliot bent down to follow him until Quentin turned his head just enough to break the kiss. His hand untangled from his to curl over his shoulder, and Eliot waited for whatever was still holding him back, trying not to get distracted in the feeling of Quentin’s breath across his cheek. “I… If you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

He didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. He also didn’t feel any great need to talk about it, particularly when he already had Quentin here, truly genuinely wanting him. But if it was still encroaching on Quentin’s thoughts, then maybe he’d feel better for getting it out in the open anyway. Shrugging, he pulled back enough to see Quentin’s face, cupping his cheek and pulling at his lower lip with his thumb because he just couldn’t help himself. Quentin’s cheeks flushed delightfully. “I think I’ve already narrowed it down.”

“To who?” His eyes widened in alarm. It was adorable.

Sliding his hand around to the back of his neck, Eliot bent to kiss his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth. _Stop worrying. Focus on me. I’m right here_. “Odds are feeling pretty even with Alice and Penny.”

Despite his attempts to keep him relaxed, he could feel the tension building in Quentin’s shoulders. “How did you -”

“I have eyes. Your brain looked like it went into shut down as soon as the two of them walked in. You were weird with Julia, but I’m sure it wasn’t her — you’d be way too much of a nervous wreck to deal with _Julia_ if you’d hooked up with her last night.” He paused, brushing his lips to the shell of Quentin’s ear. “I want _all_ of the gory details.”

Eliot felt as much as heard the sound of protest that came from the back of Quentin’s throat, and as much he delighted in the thought of teasing him, he couldn’t make himself draw it out. He ducked his head lower to kiss the side of Quentin’s neck, his jaw, before covering his mouth with his. Quentin melted against him instantly. “The only thing I care about,” Eliot said, dropping his voice as he spoke against Quentin’s lips, “is if you want this right now.” He kissed him again, a quick press of his lips. “And maybe later tonight. And tomorrow morning. And —”

“Yes,” Quentin said, pressing his whole body up into him as he kissed him. “Yes, uh huh, yes, El —” He laughed lightly against his lips, and Eliot gave into the elation bubbling up inside of him, tightening his arm around Quentin and tilting his head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the sound of Quentin’s gasp.

Eliot had barely registered the pleasure that shot through him when Quentin’s hand tightened in his hair before he felt the other tugging at the buttons of his shirt, and he took Quentin’s lead eagerly, reaching down to curl his fingers around the hem of his shirt and tug it up over his head. The moment Quentin’s hands were free they were back on his shirt, pulling at the fabric while Eliot lost himself in the torturous softness of his skin underneath his hands. He slid them up his narrow back, down his sides, up his chest, grinning against Quentin’s mouth at the shiver that went through him when he tweaked at his nipples.

Reluctantly, he let Quentin pull his hands away to slip his shirt over his arms, and the feeling of his bare chest against his when Quentin pressed against him was worth the momentary pause. Quentin’s mouth dropped down to his shoulder, and Eliot gasped at the feeling of his tongue rolling over skin bruised from the night before. If Quentin was holding onto any discomfort, he wasn’t showing it — not with the way he grazed his teeth across his skin.

Quentin’s hands found his shoulders, pulling him down just enough to press his face against his neck. He felt Quentin’s chest expand in a deep breath and wrapped his arms around him, his palms flat against his back, his fingers exploring the shape of his shoulder blades while he waited for Quentin to find words for whatever he needed to say. “I like… doing what we did last night,” he said after a moment, his voice a little unsteady. “And I like it the other way too, I just… I haven’t… in a while…”

Eliot felt every word in a brush of his lips against his throat, and in the heat that flashed through his body and settled in his cock. _Christ,_ was he asking him to fuck him? Maybe he was asking him not to fuck him. He let out a long, slow breath, and if it was shaky, then who could blame him? “Is that what you want?”

“Well, I…” Quentin shrank into himself a little, then pressed himself forward, rolling his hips slightly, and Eliot could feel the bulge forming in his jeans. “Yes. Yes, _please_ , yes _.”_

Groaning, Eliot tightened an arm around Quentin’s waist, holding him against him while his other hand gripped the back of Quentin’s neck, pulling him back so he could brush their noses together. “That’s okay,” he murmured, “because I am perfectly prepared to take my time with you tonight.” Quentin’s lips were parted when he pressed his against them, and he kissed him with the same amount of hunger that was building in him. He felt the brush of Quentin’s tongue against his and matched it with fervour, drowning in the taste and the feel and the want of him.

He could have kept kissing him forever, but when Quentin started to tremble he made himself pull back, and he — fuck, he took a moment to take him in. His kiss-red lips, slightly parted; his blown pupils; his hair messed from Eliot’s hands running through it. “You’re beautiful,” he said before he could consider the words, and caught his breath at the sudden tinge to Quentin’s cheeks, his uncertain half-smile. He cleared his throat, found his thoughts. “Clothes off,” he said, taking Quentin’s hand and moving it to rest on his belt buckle. “Get on the bed. Face down.”

Quentin stared up at him for a few seconds, wide-eyed, before his hands started fumbling at his belt. Swallowing down the lump in his throat at Quentin’s eagerness, Eliot watched him as he pushed his jeans down and his underwear down in one motion, wrestled against a smile at the nervous look on Quentin’s face — he didn’t want him to take it the wrong way — and then forgot about it completely at the sight of Quentin, standing naked before him. His eyes raked over him, over his straight shoulders and his flat stomach, over his thin waist and his twitching cock. He was half-hard already, and Eliot watched him for a moment as it filled out, rising higher as it did so. “On the bed,” he reminded him thickly.

He waited until Quentin’s back was turned and he was crawling onto the mattress before he started working his own belt open. He barely spared a thought for his clothes, lying haphazard on the floor, as he stepped up to the bed. Quentin had taken his suggestion literally, lying face down on top of the quilt, his head resting on his crossed arms, and Eliot took a moment to just take him in.

Quentin. Naked. In his bed.

He was never going to get that image out of his head.

It wasn’t until the jolt of sensation went through him that he realised that his hand was wrapped around his cock, and he — he just gave himself a _moment_ , thrusting forward once into the tight circle of his hand, before he forced his thoughts away from his own pleasure. He wanted to make Quentin fall apart as completely as he had last night, and to do that he had to keep some semblance of focus. Pulling his hand away, he moved forward to kneel on the edge of the bed, grabbing Quentin by the hips and pulling him up. “Like this,” he said, arranging him until he was on his elbows and knees, his forehead resting on his forearms.

Quentin’s readiness to move into any position that Eliot wanted made his chest go tight — he wasn’t sure whether it was a submissive nature or a measure of his trust in Eliot, and didn’t know which possibility hit him the hardest, but he paused for another moment to gather himself before he guided Quentin’s legs a little wider on the bed.

Shifting to kneel behind him, he smoothed his hands up over Quentin’s ass, spreading them across his lower back and stretching his fingers out to cover him from hip to hip. Moving one to the centre to keep him in place, he trailed the other down over the crease between his cheeks, keeping his touch light as his fingers danced over his perineum and then flattened out to cup his balls, and higher to surround his shaft. Quentin pushed forward into his hand, whimpering as he grew fuller under Eliot’s touch. “El,” he said, gasping as Eliot tightened his grip around the head.

“Yes?” he asked, shifting his other hand from Quentin’s back to pull his cheeks apart and bending his head to touch his lips right over his opening.

 _“Oh.”_ Quentin’s knees bent, pushing hard back against him, and Eliot moved both of his hands to his hips to hold him still, reaching with his thumbs to hold his cheeks apart. Parting his lips, he circled his tongue lightly around the tight, puckered flesh a few times before flattening it to lick over him, and felt the shudder that went all the way through him. “Oh, _fuck_ , El.”

Humming his enjoyment of his response, Eliot continued working his tongue over him, making a token effort to hold onto Quentin’s hips, but the way Quentin squirmed against him was too good to force him to keep still. Quentin’s low whimpers evolved into moans, and Eliot didn’t let up until the sounds he was making abruptly quietened.

Pulling back and straightening up, he looked over Quentin’s shoulder, his concern turning into amused exasperation when he saw his face buried in the quilt. “Nope, uh-uh,” he laughed, bending over him to grab his shoulder and pull him back. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

Quentin’s response sounded more like a disbelieving wheeze than anything else, and Eliot patted his back in encouragement while he reached out toward his bedside table with his other hand. There was no way he was moving from this spot, and he had never been more grateful for the ease with which he could pull open the top drawer and float the bottle of lube and a condom across the room and into his hand. Dropping the condom onto the mattress beside him, rubbing his hand comfortingly over Quentin’s back for a moment before he drew back to open the bottle and squeezed out a generous measure onto his fingers. “Relax, okay?” he murmured.

“I know — _oh_ —”

Eliot’s eyes slipped closed, focusing on the way Quentin’s thighs started to tremble as he pressed his tongue more firmly against that tight ring of muscle. Slowly, he delved deeper, feeling Quentin tighten and relax, tighten and relax around him. Steadying him with one hand on the back of his thigh, he brought his other hand up and withdrew his tongue, pressing a kiss against his tailbone as he started to press a finger into him.

Listening intently, Eliot kept his movements slow as he worked his finger deeper, waiting until Quentin’s long, deep breaths started hitching into gasps again before he slid it carefully out and then back in again. Dropping back down, he circled his tongue around his finger, keeping the pressure light and soothing on the outside while he prepared him for a second.

Quentin’s body was more receptive to his than he could have imagined. When he'd said it had been a while since he’d done this, Eliot had settled himself in for the long haul, but Quentin was a squirming mess on the bed, all pleasure and no pain as he worked a second finger in beside the first with ease. He remembered how eager he’d been last night, how wrecked he’d sounded with Eliot’s mouth wrapped around him, and wondered if maybe that wasn’t the sex pollen — maybe that was just _Quentin._ The thought made him moan, which sent a shiver all through Quentin. And that — he wanted to feel _that_ again, to make him see fucking _stars_. Crooking his fingers, he found the spot he was looking for and pressed the tips of his fingers against it, squeezing his eyes shut tighter against the way Quentin's hips jumped, at the broken sound that left his throat.

 _Fuck._ Eliot's cock throbbed, begging for attention, but he stayed focused on Quentin, on the way he bucked back against him. "El — Eliot —" he moaned, writhing on the bed in front of him. " _Oh fuck_ , Eliot —"

He drew his fingers back, spreading them to loosen him up as he did so, and then pressed back in, rubbing against that same spot again and again. "Hmm?" he said, leaning back and letting his fingers do the work.

Quentin's head lifted, then fell back heavily onto his forearms. "If you —" He broke off with a low, throaty laugh, arching his back, his shoulder blades moving underneath his skin. "If you don't —"

His words dissolved into a groan, but Eliot got the gist. His breath caught at the thought of taking him apart like this, of continuing that pressure on his prostate, maybe sneaking his other hand between his legs and jerking him off until he came — he could do it, and he could tell it wouldn't take long, and that Quentin would love it. Christ, he could forget the stimulation of his hands and just eat him out until Quentin spilled all over his quilt, and Quentin would _love_ it.

But Quentin had asked him to fuck him, and how could he deny him that?

Removing his hand, he squeezed at Quentin’s hips for a moment, silently asking him to keep still before he fumbled around to find the condom packet that he’d dropped near his knees. Tearing open the foil with his teeth, he rolled it over his erection and then reached for the bottle of lube, squeezing out a generous measure into his palm and then spreading it over his cock, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he felt the anticipation rise high in him. Positioning himself closer behind Quentin, he bent over him to press a kiss between his shoulder blades, pressing lightly on his lower back to change the angle of his hips a little before he moved his hand to hold him steady.

Lining himself up, he pressed the tip of his cock against Quentin’s hole, holding still until — _“Fuck, El, just —”_ and Quentin’s words broke off into a ragged groan as Eliot pushed in, just a little, moving slowly as he worked the head past the muscles tightening in protest at the intrusion. And he couldn’t _think_ , couldn’t _breathe_ , because he’d barely moved past that point before Quentin was pushing back against him, sinking down onto him like it was _nothing._

“Fuck, Q,” he gasped, scrambling to grab Quentin’s hips but he didn’t want to stop him, not when he was shuddering so prettily on the bed, his hands fisting in the quilt beneath him. “Look at you, oh my _god_.” He pulled back, just enough to slide further into him, and his body curled forward over Quentin’s, overwhelmed by the hot grip of him all around him.

Quentin moved his shoulders back, and Eliot gave into the urge to drop forward, catching himself with his hand flat on the mattress before he pressed his body along Quentin’s back, bending his head to close his mouth over his shoulder. His other arm slipped around Quentin’s waist, keeping him tight against him, but he needn’t have bothered by the way he — fucking — _wriggled_ his ass back against him. He felt Quentin’s cock bob against the back of his forearm, felt his sharp in-drawn breath. “You feel — I feel so _full_ …”

Was the strain in his voice desire or discomfort? Eliot held still, cursing himself for not being more careful. He’d said that he’d take his time, he should know better even if Quentin had wanted to push for more than he could handle. “Are you okay?” he said, gentling his lips against Quentin’s shoulder.

Quentin’s shoulders shook, and Eliot felt panic spike in him before he realised that he was laughing. “Am I — Are you ser—” He cut off as he shifted against him. “Just… _move_.”

He could — yeah, he could do that. Rolling his hips against Quentin’s, he huffed his own broken laugh when Quentin’s dissolved into a moan. Keeping his chest pressed against his back, Eliot pulled back just enough to thrust slowly back in, dropping his face to the back of Quentin’s neck as the friction drew a groan from deep within his chest. He felt the brush of fingers against his head, and when he realised Quentin was pulling his hair to the side so he could kiss his neck he did exactly that, sucking on it for a second before laving his tongue over it. He thrust again, finding a long, slow rhythm that made Quentin’s breath hitch every time he filled him up.

He could have kept that up forever, drawn out that low, steady pleasure for hours, but he took the hint when Quentin started pressing back onto him with every thrust, harder each time, reaching behind him with one arm to twist his fingers through the hair at the back of Eliot’s head. Squeezing his arm around Quentin’s middle, he bit lightly at his shoulder just to hear him moan before he detangled himself enough to straighten up.

Quentin glanced up at him over his shoulder, his lower teeth caught between his lips and his eyes dark, and the way he looked at him sent a shiver rolling through him. When he turned his head back, Eliot smoothed his hands up either side of Quentin’s spine, admiring the lines of his back as he returned his hands to his hips. Spreading his knees wider on the bed, he tightened his grip and then snapped his hips forward, burying himself deeply into Quentin, a thrill rushing through his whole body as Quentin cried out, and again on the next thrust, and again.

Closing his eyes shut, he let himself feel it. He’d thought that the only way he’d experience this was as part of his favourite fantasies, but this was better than anything his mind could conjure up. Quentin, tight around him. Quentin, in his bed, and hopefully not for the last time. Digging his fingers into his skin, he thrust forward, wringing another moan out of the both of them.

“God, _harder_ ,” Quentin cried out, and his body reacted before he could comprehend the demand. “Ah, _yes_ , just like… _fuck_ , just like that, I want… fuck, I want it _all._ ”

Eliot’s breath caught in his throat, his hips stuttering to a pause. There was a new note to his voice, something more than just what their bodies were doing here. “Quentin…” he said, then stopped when Quentin pushed back onto him, groaning when Eliot thrust into him hard again.

“I wanted you since — since I saw you stretched out on the Brakebills sign,” Quentin continued, his words coming out desperate and rushed as Eliot picked up the pace. “I’ve never… not wanted… this.”

It was ridiculous, how something could spike his arousal and make his heart swell at the same time, but Quentin had always been full of surprises. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he loosened the grip of one of his hands, smoothing it across Quentin’s side before returning it to his hip. “The first time I saw you, staring up at me with your mouth hanging open…” He could remember every detail of that moment, despite the months in between, he thought about it so often. “All I could think about was getting you to wrap those lips around my dick.”

“Oh my god.”

But it was more than that, and he — fuck, he needed Quentin to know that, no matter how terrified he was of it. _This is Q_ , he reminded himself. _Q, who wants you back._ “And then… I got to know you, and I wanted… more, I wanted… you.”

Quentin whimpered, and Eliot covered up his vulnerability by fucking into him harder.

Quentin’s head had dropped down onto his arms again, and he was letting out low, cut-off moans every time Eliot moved. Was he close? Letting go of his hips, Eliot dropped back down with his hands on either side of Quentin, somehow managing to keep his rhythm. He pressed his mouth against his shoulder, too messy to be a kiss, and wondered… “If I touch you are you going to come?”

His whole body shuddered. “Fuck, El — ah,” he gasped, and Eliot watched over his shoulder as he clenched his hands into fists. “Probably.”

He didn’t want this to end yet but he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself from shifting his weight to one hand so he could reach down and wrap his hand around Quentin’s cock. Quentin’s body jerked forward into his hand, then back onto Eliot’s cock, and when Eliot pulled his hand away the sound he made was _broken_. “Not yet.”

Wrapping his arm around Quentin’s chest, he pulled him up with him onto his knees. Reaching across and cupping his cheek, he pulled his face towards him and kissed him. The angle might have been awkward but Quentin’s lips clung to his like he never wanted to stop, and Eliot was moving again before he’d intended to. Both of Quentin’s hands came up to grip tightly at Eliot’s arm, and Eliot broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of his neck. One of Quentin's hands came up to hold him there, and it struck him how they must look — Quentin all stretched out for him, his body rocking every time Eliot pushed inside him, his hard cock straining for attention in front of him.

It wasn’t long until Quentin started to shudder, and Eliot could feel it too — it was right there but he wasn’t ready yet, didn’t ever want to stop… but they’d have a next time, and a next. Fighting to keep his momentum, he moved his hand from Quentin’s waist to wrap it around him, listening to Quentin’s gasping cry as he stroked him once, twice before his fingers twisted painfully in Eliot’s hair, his muscles tightening around his cock and Eliot pushed through it, finally letting himself chase his own orgasm. And Quentin was still coming, hot mess still spilling onto his hand, onto his quilt, and when he fell forward onto his hands Eliot let him go, fucking into him a few seconds more before everything was drowned out by the white heat that flooded through him.

He dragged in a deep breath, and realised as he exhaled that he was pressed against Quentin’s back again. He was trembling, or maybe they both were, their exhaustion caught up with them immediately. Pressing his face against Quentin’s sweat-slicked back, he gathered his strength before leaning back. “Okay,” he murmured, hissing against the over-sensitivity as he slipped out and removed the condom, tying it off and floating it across the room to the trash can. He didn’t trust his legs yet.

And he didn’t want to leave Quentin. He’d slumped to one side but hadn’t moved further than that, and Eliot tried not to smile as he gazed down at him. “Are you one of those people who loses all function after sex?” he asked, his lips stretching into a grin despite himself.

Quentin was obviously trying to look affronted, but really he just looked adorable. And tired. “It was really good sex,” he protested weakly.

Humming his agreement (and feeling no small sense of relief), Eliot quickly turned his hands through the spell to clean them both up, as well as the mess on the quilt cover, and then pulled it back, tugging on Quentin until he followed him beneath it. The spell cleared most of the sweat from his skin, but he was still hot and flushed with exertion, so he left it bunched around their waists as Quentin settled in beside him.

Lying on his side facing him, Quentin glanced up at him almost shyly before looking down to watch his hand as he flattened it against Eliot’s chest, his fingers dancing along his collarbone before they curled over his shoulder. His lips parted, then pressed together firmly, and then his tongue darted out to wet them in what was clearly another delaying tactic. “I…”

He trailed off, his eyes firm on the base of Eliot’s neck. His eyelids were drooping, but there was far too much tension in his shoulders for someone who had just been so well and truly fucked. Trailing his hand up Quentin’s skin until he cupped his cheek, he tilted his head back, leaning forward to press his lips to his. God, he wished he’d kissed him more. He smiled against his lips, remembering that he could make up for that later. He kissed him gently, taking his time until he relaxed against him. When he eventually pulled back, Quentin’s eyes stayed closed for a few seconds before he blinked up at him, smiling faintly. “Tell me,” Eliot said quietly.

Quentin looked away immediately, but only took a moment before he raised his eyes to meet his again. He lifted a shoulder in an awkward shrug, and Eliot dropped his hand to rest on his neck in what he hoped was a comforting touch. “I just… I thought last night was only so intense because of… well, you know,” he said after a deep breath. “But this was…”

“Still intense.”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed, looking almost embarrassed. Eliot didn’t want him to feel embarrassed by _anything_ he felt with him, particularly if it was about how _good_ he felt. He stroked his thumb over his cheek, pushed his hair back from his face, and felt a rush of warmth from the way he leaned into his touch. “Is it… always like that with you?”

He wasn’t going to pretend he’d never had good sex before. Quentin would know he was lying if he tried, and he didn’t want to — this wasn’t about boosting someone’s ego. And… if Quentin was feeling the same way he was, it wasn’t just _the sex_ that had him feeling like he’d ascended tonight. There was good sex, and there was good sex with someone you cared about. Watching Quentin react to him, knowing that he wanted him, had been half the pleasure. “Maybe… it’s like that for me and you?” he said slowly.

And felt… a little less terrified by that possibility.

Especially at the warm smile that spread across Quentin’s face. He felt like he could do anything with him looking at him like that. Quentin dropped his hand to Eliot’s waist, his fingers stroking across his skin, and Eliot’s continued to trace across his face. “God, I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow,” Quentin said under his breath.

Tomorrow. Despite how exhausted they were, it couldn’t be later than… six? Six-thirty? He felt sleep pulling at him with a firm grasp, but they’d be lucky if they slept through until three in the morning. Or maybe lucky to wake up a few hours before everyone else, he thought, eyeing Quentin’s smile. “Yeah?” he asked innocently. “Why’s that?”

The flush that spread across Quentin’s cheeks threatened to take his breath away. “You know why,” he said, dropping his forehead to his shoulder, and he could just imagine the bashful grin that matched the way he squirmed against him.

Laughing, Eliot pressed his lips against Quentin’s hair. “Are you seriously blushing from _that_ after the sex we just had?”

Quentin huffed a laugh against his skin. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Uh-huh. So we can have sex again sooner, right?”

“Oh my _god,_ shut up.”

Smirking, Eliot wrapped his arms around him, gathering him in close. He felt Quentin shake against him with another laugh, before relaxing in against him. He rolled onto his back, pulling Quentin with him until he was sprawled across him, head on his chest, arm slung around him, leg tucked between his.

Quentin’s breathing was already starting to even out, and it soothed any lingering worries that still tried to tug at Eliot. He could do it. He could be this person, who fell asleep next to someone and woke up with them in the morning, and intended to do it again and again and again. The thought should have terrified him, but… it was Quentin. _Quentin._ He could do this with Q.

“G’night, El,” Quentin murmured against his chest, and he could hear the tired smile in his voice.

Closing his eyes, he tightened his grip around Quentin’s shoulders, before letting his arms relax around him. “Night, Q.”


End file.
